


Too Young To Die [Prologue]

by Cerisa



Series: Nico's Miracles [1]
Category: Heroes of Olympus - Fandom, Percy Jackson and the Olympians
Genre: Alternative Universe- Future, Angst, College!Verse, Depression, Future Fic, Gen, M/M, Moving On, Renewed optimism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 06:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerisa/pseuds/Cerisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nico is finally moving on. </p><p>He wants to lift himself out of this hole he's dug all his life, ever since his mother died. He's so close to climbing out and finally getting the things he wants. Like getting better for Leo. </p><p>These are his dreams, in the form of a short college essay rough draft.</p><p>It's raw, it's unpolished, and that is what makes it Nico's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Young To Die [Prologue]

**Author's Note:**

> This is the piece that inspired me to create my own college!verse for the characters of THO. I really think Leo/Nico works well. Be warned, that the rest of the series is sort of serious, and I do make references to self harm, and depression. On both Nico's and Leo's sides, because they're both really fucked up. 
> 
> Insp: The City, & Icarus, & Finale by Madeon  
> Stay Awake – Ellie Goulding, Madeon
> 
> I hope you enjoy this.

I know exactly what you expect from every single one of these college essays. You’ve seen it all, heard it all. The weight of your years, your humbling experiences and your very life itself bow you, bending your spine and weighing down your memories; that which feeds the drive you burn with in your quest to find the perfect student.

I’m here to tell you that there’s no perfect student. There’s no mold, no template for excellence. Modern day society must understand that there is no one perfect standard for everything. I’m here to tell you that I am just another one of the countless cases to which this rule applies.

I recognize that there are many different types of greatness. Now I wonder if you can as well.

At this point, I suppose you’d expect me to bring up the age old clichéd example that every single down-on-his-luck kid uses in one of these types of essays. I will, too. I’m just full of surprises, sweetheart. 

Enter the phoenix. 

I’m talking about the great, flaming chicken bird thing rising from the ashes of its corpse; whose tears supposedly possess healing qualities. Of which a feather is generally seen as a most fortunate omen. Like… Dumbledore’s Fawkes? 

Yes, that one. 

Did I surprise you? After all, wasn't I just talking about different molds and inherent originality in every single human being, all eight billion of us? 

Yeah, I was. I still am. I’m not likely to negate myself that easily. This isn't the tenth grade. Keep up, will you? 

Now let me divert your attentions towards personification for a moment. I’m sure you know what it means. I know that I know what it means. Just to be sure, though, in case you don’t actually know… It means to imbibe an inanimate object, or something that is not inherently human with anthropomorphic qualities. 

At this point, either you’re chuckling to yourself, reflecting on how deliciously snarky and fresh my commentary is. Or perhaps ruefully thinking of how much you’d like to put down this essay. Don’t do it, you may deprive the rest of the world of something truly amazing.

I’m not the phoenix. 

“What?” You ask, already confused.

You heard right. I’m not the phoenix. 

You stare at this essay, positively shocked that I’m not comparing myself to a glorified flaming regenerative chicken. You have no idea what I’m talking about. 

“Why bring up the phoenix at all, then?”

Why, indeed. 

I bring it up because I am not the phoenix, but the ashes from which it rises. 

I am the base, the foundation, the precedent, the beginning of the rest of someone else’s life. 

The bone dust that grits under your feet, that lingering sense of sadness you feel after someone’s rushed into the ER, so badly injured that all you can do is ease their way into the next plane of existence, the all-encompassing sense of crippling loneliness you feel when you wake up at two in the morning and realize you have nothing to live for. 

And then, you decide to do something about it.

I am nostalgia; I am the risqué parts of life, the dangerous parts, the ones that make you feel the most alive. I am the stupid ones who fell apart at one false kiss from this boyfriend or that one, those guys in the corner who barely hold themselves together through the day without wanting to rend new, beautiful lines of burning pain into their flesh. Those wistful ashes whispering past your window on the evening’s ocean breeze, those shadows that the unbroken ones are too scared to step through. 

The shadows where people like me live and breathe and thrive.

I’ve been through a lot.

The one thing that I take away from my struggles, however, is that I am a survivor.

I am a survivor.

The most dangerous people, the most determined and formidable ones are those who are so broken beyond repair, simply rendered into shades of what they once were, could have been. Those people are the ones who know what’s on the line, and will risk anything and everything to achieve their goals.

They know that the work they do now is the difference between being able to pay all of your bills at one time, to choosing between whether to keep the heating or your electricity on. The difference between choosing to buy your kid supplies for school, getting the groceries, or both.

I want to be able to do all of those things. I’m not going to let myself depend on anyone or anything. I want to be self-sufficient. To not only take care of myself, but my partner, my family, my friends.

I will never be helpless again. Will never watch another loved one extinguish themselves because I didn’t know how to help.

I want to show myself that I can pull those scattered ashes together in some semblance of order, and make something of myself. That I can exist in my current state, as the person I am, yet be so much more than that. 

I want to transcend what I am. And I want your school to give me that opportunity.

I’m willing to work. 

I’m willing to bend over and grind down on myself until my bones splinter and the seams of my very quintessence are in danger of dissolving into this unforgiving world. I’m willing to watch my hands bleed from scrubbing toilet seats in seedy bars and flipping your burgers at McDonalds. To drool and fall asleep over a term paper I’ve been working on for the last four weeks until I can’t possibly keep my eyes open anymore. And then jolt awake six minutes later and down three cups of coffee and go right back to work.

I’m willing to work until I’m worn down and so mentally fucked over, that I can’t remember my name or where I come from, or who I am, but know exactly where to place my hands to save someone’s life. I want to know how many millimeters of that painkiller this guy needs stat, or he’ll pass out and all will be lost if he’s not awake and fighting; I need to help him work towards a sweet-and-savory future with that girl he wants to be with, and those wispy visions of three kids and a dog that he catches himself daydreaming about. I need him to have the sweet apple pie life with a white picket fence that I never got. I won’t let him leave everything behind.

Because guess what? That guy is just another prime exhibit of that rule I wrote to you about earlier. 

You need to live by this rule, and learn to recognize excellence in its many forms. To recognize that this guy who’s fighting for his life right now, strapped to that gurney, is going to make it out okay. And sure, he won’t be the same, but you wouldn’t be if you got hit by a car, would you? 

My point is, he’s a survivor. And so am I. He’s my phoenix, the one who emerges from my ashy, pale existence, completing this ancient, sacred circle of life.

Give me a chance to help others like me. And I’ll prove that I’m worth it, both to myself, my loved ones, and to you.

Let this be the beginning of the rest of my life.

Thank you. 

-Nico Di Angelo


End file.
